


What's Wrong with Secretary Rhys?

by marchpanes



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, PA Rhys, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 14:27:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18994438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchpanes/pseuds/marchpanes
Summary: Rhys puts in his two weeks' notice.That gives Jack about a week and a half to change his mind.





	What's Wrong with Secretary Rhys?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JugumPuppet](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=JugumPuppet).



> Written for the lovely [Jugum](https://twitter.com/JugumPuppet), who requested a paragraph of gentle fluff, romantic silliness, and Rhys taking matters into his own hands. It got a little bit away from me, after that. 
> 
> Based on the premise of the Korean drama "What's Wrong with Secretary Kim?" Highly recommended if you're into workplace romance and generally idiotic pining. A+.

“So my point is,” Rhys says, because he knows Jack hasn’t been listening, “I’m resigning.”

The rapid-fire typing finally stops, and Jack looks up from his screen. Every inch of his lacquered walnut desk is strewn with progress updates, and incident reports, and PR packets. And on top of it all, right next to his computer, is the only paper not ringed with coffee stains— from his absolutely filthy _#1 Boss_ mug, _refilled fourteen times today,_ Rhys thinks, _by me_ — because Rhys just placed it there. It’s the only paper that Jack hasn’t looked at, yet.

“You can’t leave,” Jack says, numbly, after a long moment. He glances down at the paper— the Letter of Resignation— and then back up to Rhys. “We’re launching Opportunity in ten days.”

“I’ll stay long enough to see it through,” Rhys says, prepared, “and to train my replacement.”

Jack slumps back against the buttery leather of his chair. He stares at him. Finally, he asks, “But _why?_ ”

Rhys smiles, politely, hands clasped together behind his back. “I’d like to explore other options.”

And then he turns, and takes his things, and goes.

—

The next day is awkward, but Rhys is prepared for that, too. He remains the picture of professionalism, even when Jack whines, and gives him dirty looks, and then— for a whole hour— doesn’t speak to him. And then he throws things, and then stares broodingly through his window, and then, finally, pretends it isn’t happening.

“You wouldn’t leave,” Jack says, scoffing, and Rhys isn’t sure if he’s talking to him or to himself. “You love this job. You’re great at it.”

Rhys keeps typing, shoulders back, posture perfect. He’s responding to the head of accounting— an anxious woman on most days, but especially recently, and Rhys can’t blame her— about expenditures for the launch party.

 _We_ will _need room in the budget for seven thousand pounds of fireworks, actually_ , he writes. _Per my last email, Jack insists._

“You’d die before you quit,” Jack goes on. “It’s ridiculous.”

“It’s a personal decision, Jack,” Rhys answers, primly, without looking up. “It has nothing to do with you.”

Jack has barely gotten any work done today. Not even while he was acting like Rhys didn’t exist. He’s mostly been huffing, and pouting, and occasionally, half-heartedly shuffling his papers. Now, he’s pacing around his desk, running his fingers through his hair. “Bullcrap,” he says, vehement. “ _Everything_ you do has to do with me.”

Rhys looks up, finally. He gives Jack a very dry look.

“What?” Jack says, crossing his arms.

“Nothing,” says Rhys. He finishes his email.

—

“We’re going down to Robotics,” Jack announces, two days later. “The valets are ready.”

Things have been chilly, since he’s realized that he can’t bully Rhys into changing his mind, or admitting it was a joke, or explaining. Rhys can stand it, though. He’s stood a lot worse.

“All right,” he says, and picks his jacket up from the back of his chair.

The elevator ride is even chillier. It’s harder to ignore, somehow; Jack’s grinding teeth, his radiating frustration at a situation he can’t will away, in a space so small and quiet.

“I’ll give you more money,” Jack says, looking at the elevator doors, and it almost sounds like he’s starting to take this seriously, “if that’s the issue.”

Rhys stares straight ahead, at the numbers on the panel, ticking steadily down. “It isn’t,” he says, simply.

They spend the rest of the trip in silence. When Jack greets the scientists waiting to receive them, it’s with enough explosive irritation that they jump, and Rhys almost feels guilty for it.

Rhys observes from the sidelines, jacket slung over his arm— it’s warm down here, in the bowels of Helios, so much closer to the engine core— while Jack inspects the steward bots designed to serve the citizens of Opportunity. He watches Jack run his fingers over the ridiculous little tuxedos painted on the robots’ pristine exteriors.

“This paint permanent? Not gonna chip?” Jack demands, glancing up. He picks at the edge of a bowtie with his fingernail. “Our customers want _quality_ , dickheads. If these guys start looking shabby after two weeks on the job, I’m taking the lost revenue out of your paychecks.”

The engineers glance between each other. “I think it’s auto paint, sir,” one says, “but I’m sure Design could tell you more about it.”

There’s no reason for Rhys to be here. He knows that. He’s not even taking notes; just trailing pointlessly behind Jack, as he leads the way to Sector 14C: Design & Aesthetic, to ask more questions that don’t really need to be asked.

—

“Rhys,” Jack slurs over the ECHO, at the beginning of the next week. Rhys squints at the clock.

He scrubs his eyes, and rolls over in bed. “What is it, Jack?” His voice is measured and professional, even now, when it’s the middle of the night, and he’s in his pajamas, and he’s just been woken up by the ringtone that means _Jack— Urgent_. “How drunk are you? You have a meeting with Legal in six hours.”

“Legal can suck my ass,” Jack says, ignoring his question. “Come here. I want a glass of water. And a pizza. Extra cheese.”

He hangs up. Rhys only closes his eyes for a short moment, before he rolls out of his bed to do his job.

The station’s never dead, but it’s certainly less crowded, at this time of the workday. There’s no line for the pizza, or the elevator, and Rhys is at the apartment before Jack bothers calling back to ask him where he is.

“Here’s your pizza,” Rhys says, when Jack answers the bell. He has the box balanced on his palm. “Extra cheese.” He twists his other arm to get through, past Jack, who’s leaning against the doorframe like he has to, or he might fall down. “And a bucket. You might need it.”

“Thanks, pumpkin,” Jack says, with an unsteady salute. He takes the pizza, and weaves back to his couch. Rhys follows him.

He’s been in his apartment before. Even under similar circumstances, once or twice. He’s never stayed longer than it takes to drop off Jack’s order, or to jot down something that Jack didn’t think was important enough to write out himself. “They have people who can do this, you know, Jack,” Rhys says, placing the bucket carefully onto the floor. “You give them money, and they deliver what you ask for.”

“I pay you already,” says Jack. “A _lot_. So much that you don’t even want more.” He waves a hand. “And it’s in your job description.”

“Mm,” Rhys agrees. Even though it isn’t.

“So,” Jack says, when he’s sprawled back down with his leg over one arm of the sofa, bottle back in his hand, and Rhys has started gathering the garbage from his coffee table, “what _is_ it?”

“What is what, Jack?” Rhys asks, patiently. He picks up an empty box of takeout, and tucks it under his arm.

“The reason you’re leaving,” Jack says. He has his eyes closed, face turned upwards towards the ceiling. “If it isn’t about the money.”

Rhys straightens. He chews his lip, for a second, and then he sighs. _Fuck it—_ Jack won’t remember this, anyway. “I just don’t feel... valued,” he says, finally, not looking at him. His tired tone is the truth, even if his words are only half of it. “I don’t think I can get what I want, Jack. If I stay.”

Somehow, even through the haze of alcohol, Jack’s gaze is sharp and thoughtful. He opens his mouth to answer, and in the pause before he speaks, Rhys can’t help but hold his breath at wondering what he’ll say. He dares, stupidly, to hope it might even be the thing he wants to hear.

And then he pukes into the bucket.

Rhys sighs, and goes to pour a glass of water.

—

“You’re really gonna quit?” Vaughn asks, over beers, a few nights later. The bar is crowded enough that they can’t be overheard, and seedy enough that no one here really recognizes Rhys, or bothers acting like they do. “Is that really, like, even an option? I’ve never heard of someone _quitting_ on Handsome Jack before.” He grimaces, behind his glasses. “Always seems like he’s the one who, uh... handles turnover.”

“Yeah,” Rhys answers, picking at the label on his bottle. _Elpis Red Ribbon, 6% ABV,_ it says, before he scrapes off the letters with his nail. “I’m really gonna quit.” He takes a drink. “And he’s not gonna do anything about it.”

Vaughn crinkles his brow. “How do you know?” He sounds doubtful.

Rhys shrugs, and slides the bottom of his bottle against the cheap plexiglass table cover, crooked on top of the scratched-up wood. “I dunno,” he admits, making figure-eights. “He likes me enough not to.”

“But,” Vaughn insists, leaning closer, “ _why_ , dude? You were so psyched when you got this job, and you’ve lasted way longer than anyone else. What, like— four years? You always acted like it was your dream come true.”

That’s the same thing Jack said, more or less. _His dream job_. And it’s true. Rhys sighs, and stares down at the trail of condensation. “Because,” he says, after just long enough that he feels embarrassed to say it, “he doesn’t like me enough for me to stay.”

“Oh,” Vaughn says, “dude.” And Rhys feels ill at the mix of realization and pity on his face. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol. Vaughn hesitates. “You still...?”

“Yeah,” Rhys says, with as much terse dignity as he can muster. “I still.” He finishes his beer and waves for the check. “Look, I just— I gotta get away, man. It feels bad. Every day, it’s like… I dunno.”

Vaughn takes a sip. He can’t seem to think of anything else to say.

Rhys pays for both of them when the bill comes, and stands. Vaughn stares up at him. “It just feels like I’m not going anywhere,” Rhys says, conclusively, putting his wallet back into his pocket. “There’s gotta be better options than this.”

—

Three days before the launch of Opportunity, Jack takes a shuttle down to Pandora to oversee the preparations.

Rhys stands on the other side of the bay doors, and passes Jack his briefcase and his schedule. And then, he passes him a stack of papers.

“Potential replacements,” Rhys says. “I took the liberty of picking out a few promising candidates.”

Jack’s brow furrows, and he looks at Rhys, accusingly. He drops the papers on the empty seat beside him.

“You have to pick one, Jack,” Rhys says, in a tone that brooks no argument. He feels the start of a headache blossoming behind his eyes.

Jack opens his mouth to argue anyway, but the cheerful launch prep music begins playing over the speakers, and the engines hum to life. Rhys steps backwards through the doors, and watches Jack watch him through the window as his shuttle lifts off, and he flies away.

—

 **change of plans** , Jack messages him, the next day. **i’m gonna need you down here for the dress rehearsal.**

 **on pandora?** Rhys texts back. **you’re kidding me.**

 **nope** , Jack responds, after long enough that Rhys was starting to hope it actually _was_ a poor joke. **booked you a seat on the next shuttle out.**

 **ok** , Rhys answers, and turns his ECHO off.

He turns it back on when he’s done with his angry shower. **you should make it to the city by tomorrow afternoon** , Jack has added, and he’s sent him a link to his itinerary. **i know it’s a hassle, babe. i’ll make it up to you.**

—

Rhys doesn’t get there by tomorrow afternoon. In fact, the sun’s already setting when he drags his luggage off the train, stinking of Pandoran dust and public transportation.

Jack meets him at the station, at least. It would be a spare point in his favor, if Rhys hadn’t spent the last six hours gouging knife-marks into the scoreboard.

“Welcome to the pre-launch party, kiddo!” He seems to realize that Rhys isn’t happy just a second too late; he drops his outstretched arms, and the grin slips from his face.

“Let’s just go,” Rhys says, pushing a sweat-soaked lock of hair behind his ear. “I’d like to get this over with.”

“Fine,” Jack says, looking slightly put out. But he grabs Rhys’s bag and carries it himself, and that’s a little nice of him to do.

“So what are we doing, exactly?” Rhys asks, tiredly. The throbbing pain threatening the edges of his vision over the past week has matured into a full on headache. He trails after Jack through streets of Opportunity; they’re suspiciously abandoned, considering the gala is tomorrow. “You said dress rehearsal?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, walking fast. Rhys jogs to catch up, so he can hear him. “Just wanna go through the checklist. Make sure everything’s perfect.”

“All right,” Rhys answers. He thinks of the hotel room Jack has promised him, and the bubble bath he’ll take, and how nice the sheets Jack made him order had sounded on last month’s expense report. It gives him the strength to keep walking.

First on the checklist, it turns out, is dinner. In Opportunity’s fanciest restaurant, at the top of the big tower with Handsome Jack’s face plastered all over the outside. Rhys slides into a chair across from him, and a waiter in a bowtie delicately unfolds a cloth napkin across his lap.

The pristine, white tablecloth is still warm from the fading light of Pandora’s distant sun through the tinted-glass window beside it. They’re tucked into a private little corner, though it isn’t necessary; the room— and the entire floor, actually, apart from the wait staff— is completely empty, except for them.

“So?” Jack asks, as they get settled. “What do you think?” He gestures at the tables surrounding them, lined up in pretty diagonal rows, and at the view. The fancy glassware, and the gentle music trickling in from unseen speakers.

Rhys smiles, patiently, and cracks open his menu. The air conditioning is helping his headache, at least. “It’s very nice, Jack. Especially for Pandora.”

“Damn straight it is.” Jack only gives the wine list a quick glance, before demanding two glasses of something too fancy for Rhys to have heard of.

“We’re drinking?” Rhys raises his eyebrows when the waiter pours them both full glasses, and not just the sample he was expecting. “Is that really necessary?”

Jack swirls his glass before he drinks. “Sure,” he says. “We don’t wanna cut corners on quality.”

“All right,” Rhys answers, frowning. “If you say so.” There’s something nagging at the back of his head. But he takes a drink of his own wine, anyway. It’s surprisingly nice. Crisp, and dry. He takes another sip, and relaxes a little, against the hard back of his chair. He may as well have a nice time, if he has to be here.

Jack snaps his menu shut. “Ribeye,” he says, when the waiter reappears by his elbow. “Medium rare. And for him—”

“I’ll have the sea bass,” Rhys says, handing his own menu over. And then, pointedly, “thank you.”

Neither of them has much to say, while they’re waiting for their food. If it were anyone but Jack, Rhys might feel awkward. But he knows that Jack hates smalltalk, and _especially_ hates rambling, so Rhys answers his questions as efficiently as possible, when they come, and feels perfectly fine not asking anything himself.

“So, how was your trip?” Jack asks, once the food has arrived. There’s something oddly frustrated, about the way he cuts into his steak. “See all the sights?”

“Fine,” Rhys says. “Yes. By the way, the last-minute expenditures had some trouble getting—”

“That’s a nice jacket,” Jack interrupts. “New?”

Rhys glances down at his front. “No,” he says. “I wore it to the Q4 wrap-up party last year. I didn’t know if you’d want me here for the actual launch, tomorrow, but it was cold on the train, and this is the only— anyway, the budget had some trouble getting through Accounting, but I told Miss Park—”

“Let’s not talk about work, Rhys,” Jack says, in the slightly blunt way of someone who’s annoyed his hint wasn’t taken. “I’ve been in crunch time for seventy-two hours. And only slightly-less-crunchy crunch time for about a month before that.” He jerks his knife, savagely, across the meat. “I need a freakin’ break.”

Rhys stares at him, uncomprehending. “You brought me down here… for a break?” he asks, faintly. “I don’t get it.”

“What do you mean, you don’t get it?” Jack sticks a piece of steak into his mouth.

“I’ve known you for four years, Jack,” Rhys says, watching him chew, “and we have _never_ talked about anything apart from work.”

“That’s not true,” Jack scoffs, once he’s swallowed. “Sometimes I ask you how your weekend was.”

Rhys makes an exasperated noise. “Yeah, and then you say— every time, and I quote— ‘ _get any work done?_ ’”

All Jack does is shrug. “So I’m changing things up a little.”

“You don’t change things up.”

Jack’s knife clinks against his plate. It echoes through the empty restaurant. “Well, I am now, then. Jesus Christ! Let a guy have a little character development.” He tongues at a piece of meat stuck in his canine, clearly irritated. “ _Okay_ , then— how’s your cat?”

“My cat,” Rhys repeats. “Jack, I gave my cat to Yvette, after five straight weeks of making Vaughn change her litter box because I was working too late to do it myself.” He crosses his arms. “Three years ago.”

“Fine,” Jack says. “Never mind. Let’s just eat in silence.”

 _This is… so goddamn weird._ Rhys stares at him, completely baffled. He takes a heavy drink from his wine glass.

“I’m sorry,” he says, stiffly, after a long while. The mood is just too awkward, and he feels a little bad. Jack was trying. He’s not sure _what_ he was trying, but he clearly was. “I had a long trip here. And it wasn’t actually very nice.”

“S’fine,” says Jack, stabbing a piece of asparagus.

Rhys sighs. “How’s the steak?”

“Good enough,” says Jack. “Yours?”

“Delicious,” Rhys answers, honestly. And it is; flaky, buttery fish, dense and clean in a way that’s hard to come by in the middle of the galaxy, several hundred light years away from decent aquaculture. He’s impressed. “I’m sure they’ll love it.”

Jack frowns. “Who?”

“The families. At the party. Tomorrow.”

“Oh, right. Yeah, they’d better,” he grumbles, “for what I’m paying.”

Rhys smiles, wryly, and drinks from his second glass of wine. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you even acknowledge how much all this is costing. Usually I’m the one trying to remind you.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack says, crossing his arms over the tie on his chest. “Maybe I’m trying to lighten the load, a little.”

Rhys snorts at the joke. “Yeah, right.” And then he looks from Jack’s crossed arms to his face, and one little part of the thing that’s been bothering him clicks, inside his brain. “Wait— why are _you_ dressed like that?” Rhys frowns, placing down his wine glass, carefully. “You’ve been working all day.”

He doesn’t know why it took him this long to notice. Jack’s wearing his suit from the holiday party— the one that brings out the colors of his eyes, and makes him look _refined_. Rhys knows, because he picked it out, and those are the words he used. It’s exactly the same, down to the polished gold, H-shaped cufflinks.

“I gotta look my best,” Jack says, shrugging. He even got the jacket pressed, Rhys realizes, watching the seams follow the movement of his arms. “I’m trying to make a good impression.”

“No one’s here yet,” Rhys answers, slowly. “The families aren’t arriving until tomorrow morning.”

Jack looks at him. But the waiter arrives with dessert, before he can answer.

—

“Did you have a chance to look at those applications?” Rhys asks, as they leave the building. He’s still tired, but his headache’s gone, at least. _Maybe I was just hungry._ The sun’s down, now, but the streets are just as empty.

“Yep,” Jack says. “I did.”

Rhys perks up, and takes a few quick steps, so they’re walking side by side. “And? What’d you think?”

“Good candidates,” Jack answers. “They’re all qualified.”

“They are!” Rhys agrees, pleasantly. “So let me know when you decide— wait, where are we going?”

They’re crossing a bridge, he realizes. His boot heels snap hollowly on the metal as he glances around. The hotel district isn’t in this direction.

Jack looks at him, finally. “Next stop,” he says. “One dinner does not a dress rehearsal make.”

Rhys holds back a groan. “And the _next stop_ would be—?” He needs to know how long to postpone his bubble bath fantasies.

But Jack doesn’t have to answer, because they turn a corner, and Rhys forgets about the bubble bath.

“Jack,” he says, stopped in his tracks, staring up at the sky, “when did you build a _ferris wheel?_ ”

Jack’s grinning at him, now, arms crossed, silhouetted by the solid-white lights. “What do you think?”

“I think,” Rhys says, carefully stepping around him to keep staring, “that this wasn’t in the budget.”

“Yeah, well,” Jack says, running a hand through his hair. He seems proud of himself. “You gave me the idea. You said you liked ‘em.”

“When did I—?” Rhys closes his mouth, racking his brains. Finally, the lightbulb goes off. “Wait, at my _job interview?_ When you made me tell you where I’d want to die, if I got to choose?”

“It stuck in my brain,” Jack answers, like it’s a thoughtful thing to say. “I thought it sounded like a good idea.”

“So you— snuck it into the plans? _When?_ ”

He shrugs. “A few months ago. Does it matter?”

Rhys exhales, with a helpless noise. “I guess it doesn’t now.”

“C’mon,” Jack says, and grabs him by the arm. “Let’s test it out.”

They ride the ferris wheel. The car smells like brand-new metal, and the bottoms of the seats are free of gum. The journey to the top is perfectly smooth, and at no point is there a stomach-thrilling creak of steel that makes Rhys think it’s on the verge of toppling to the ground. They sit across from one another, with their knees nearly touching, and— apart from one brief moment at the beginning, when Jack throws his weight around, laughing, to make the gondola swing, and Rhys tells him, very sharply, to stop— they sit in silence.

It’s kind of nice. Rhys isn’t used to Jack being quiet. When they reach the top, he tears his gaze away from the birds-eye view of the city, and looks at Jack instead.

This high, the Pandoran nighttime breeze rocks them gently back and forth in a way that Jack has no say over, even with his property line extending straight to atmosphere. He’s staring through the glass, chin propped up on one hand, elbow against the arm of his seat; thoughtful, and unselfconscious in a way that Rhys has almost never seen before.

Jack isn’t ever _embarrassed_. But he’s almost always aware of himself. Every narrow of his eyes, every dismissive gesture of his hand. It’s all deliberate. Manufactured, and painted, like the pretty coat on a lethal Hyperion gun. _The only person who knows him as well as he knows himself_ , Rhys thinks, watching him, as the ferris wheel rolls smoothly back into motion, _is me_.

He supposes that’s why Jack doesn’t want him to leave.

Jack stares down at what he’s made, and Rhys stares at him. At his collar, just brushing against his hairline, and the way the lights of Opportunity catch across the metal of his mask.

—

“One more stop,” Jack says, and this time, Rhys doesn’t ask where they’re going.

It’s solidly dark out, now, and far later than Rhys intended to stay up, after such a long day. And with such a long day, tomorrow— but his exhaustion has curled up in the back of his mind, unprioritized, in favor of amusement and reluctant curiosity. So he just follows.

They stop in the Waterfront District, where Crater Lake laps up against Hyperion concrete, before it stretches out into inky blackness beyond the reach of the city’s reflected, twinkling lights. Rhys looks between him, and the water.

“What now?” he asks, exasperated, and surprises himself when his words come out as a laugh.

“You’ll see,” says Jack, smiling. And he does.

There’s a whistle in the air. A single comet-tail of sparking fire arcs through the sky above the lake, smearing a mirrored streak across its surface. It hangs, for a brief moment— and then it bursts apart. There’s only a heartbeat of silence between the pretty blast of scattering light, and then the crack, and then the crackle, as a hundred bits of firework blaze down, and out, and fade into the water.

“Oh,” Rhys says. He can’t say anything else, after that, because the night fills up with sound and stars and beauty, and his throat is far too dry to say things, anyway.

Their shoulders bump together. Jack’s sidled closer, at some point; Rhys barely notices. They stand, just touching, and watch together as the lights flash bright and brilliant, again and again, across the moonlit sky of Opportunity.

It lasts nearly ten minutes. The finale feels like it vibrates through his blood, and seems to paint the sky permanently lighter; afterwards, in the echo of the final explosion, Rhys can’t quite tear his gaze away from the haze of half-lit smoke, hanging low over the shoreline. He closes his eyes, and smells gunpowder, and watches as the brilliant spots of color dance across his vision.

“You used up all the fireworks,” he says, finally, faintly, into the ringing silence. “I really had to muscle accounting into paying for those, you know.”

When Jack answers, there’s an edge to his nonchalance that makes it sound forced. Rhys knows this, because he knows Jack’s voice; he knows its every tone, and variation. “I’ll buy more,” he answers, simply. “Or I won’t.”

Rhys turns, and pulls him down by his lapels, and kisses him.

Jack isn’t ready, when Rhys presses their mouths together. For a stomach-dropping, world-tipping moment, it’s just Rhys, with his train-chapped lips pressed softly, chastely, against Jack’s numb mouth. And here’s where he should lose his courage; where he should stumble back, and wipe his mouth off, and apologize, horrified, and offer to find that replacement right away; to faint dead from the humiliation, or jump straight into the water, or fly right back to Helios and jump out of it, instead.

But Rhys doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he makes a noise in his throat, deep and frustrated, and kisses him even more insistently.

Because Rhys might be slow on the uptake, but he’s not stupid. And because he knows Jack, but he knows himself far better, and he knows that if he doesn’t take this chance, he will explode. Like a Roman candle, fizzing out across water.

He tilts his head. He presses his mouth to the corner of Jack’s lips, and lets his hands tug harder on Jack’s collar. And finally, with a breath, Jack comes alive again.

His hands bury themselves in Rhys’s hair, fingers warm and solid. He holds his head there while he kisses him back, sweet and hungry, mouth following Rhys’s lead like _he’s_ the one who’s unsure, still, that this is happening. It sends a bolt of courage to Rhys’s heart, and his arms snake up to wrap around Jack’s neck. He opens his mouth, and lets the kiss fall deeper.

Jack tastes like wine, and planet dust, and the slightly spicy way he’s always smelled. He tastes like the feeling of a freshly-pressed suit, and the smell of a brand new ferris wheel, and the way a firework leaves stars behind your eyes. He tastes like quitting the job you’ve always hated, and like landing the one you’ve been dreaming of.

When Rhys’s heels touch the ground again, Jack runs his thumb gently across his jaw, up to his cheekbone. He stares down at him, lights in his eyes, and Rhys stares back, wondering if he looks half as reverential. Their foreheads touch.

“So,” Jack asks, and Rhys closes his eyes at the feeling of his breath against his mouth. “Does this mean you’re staying?”

“Maybe,” says Rhys. He pulls himself up again, and laughs against Jack’s cheek. “I’ll add it to my list of options.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> <3 Thank you for reading! And thank you again to [Jugum](https://twitter.com/JugumPuppet); this was a very fun fic to write.


End file.
